Tripwire

and park at the top.”
    She nodded and made the lane changes. Fordham slid by on the left, and then the conservatory on the right. She used the museum entrance and found the lot just beyond it. It was mostly empty.
    “Now what?”
    He took the leather-bound folder with him.
    “Just keep an open mind,” he said.
    The conservatory was a hundred yards ahead of them. He had read all about it in a free leaflet, the day before. It was named for somebody called Enid Haupt and had cost a fortune to build in 1902, and ten times as much to renovate ninety-five years later, which was money well spent because the result was magnificent. It was huge and ornate, the absolute definition of urban philanthropy expressed in iron and milky white glass.
    It was hot and damp inside. Reacher led Jodie around to the place he was looking for. The exotic plants were massed in huge beds bounded by little walls and railings. There were benches set on the edges of the walkways. The milky glass filtered the sunlight to a bright overcast. There was a strong smell of heavy damp earth and pungent blooms.
    “What?” she asked. She was partly amused, partly impatient. He found the bench he was looking for and stepped away from it, close to the low wall. He stepped half a pace left, then another, until he was sure.
    “Stand here,” he said.
    He took her shoulders from behind and moved her into the same position he had just occupied. Ducked his head to her level and checked.
    “Stand on tiptoes,” he told her. “Look straight ahead.”
    She made herself taller and stared ahead. Her back was straight and her hair was spilled on her shoulders.
    “OK,” he said. “Tell me what you see.”
    “Nothing,” she said. “Well, plants and things.”
    He nodded and opened the leather folder. Took out the glossy photograph of the gray emaciated Westerner, flinching away from his guard’s rifle. He held it out, arm’s length in front of her, just on the edge of her vision. She looked at it.
    “What?” she asked again, half-amused, half-frustrated.
    “Compare,” he said.
    She kept her head still and flicked her eyes left and right between the photograph and the scene in front of her. Then she snatched the picture from him and held it herself, arm’s length in front of her. Her eyes widened and her face went pale.
    “Christ,” she said. “Shit, this picture was taken here? Right here? It was, wasn’t it? All these plants are exactly the same.”
    He ducked down again and checked once more. She was holding the picture so the shapes of the plants corresponded exactly. A mass of some kind of palm on the left, fifteen feet high, fronds of fern to the right and behind in a tangled spray. The two figures would have been twenty feet into the dense flower bed, picked out by a telephoto lens that compressed the perspective and threw the nearer vegetation out of focus. Well to the rear was a jungle hardwood, which the camera had blurred with distance. It was actually growing in a different bed.
    “Shit,” she said again. “Shit, I don’t believe it.”
    The light was right, too. The milky glass way above them gave a pretty good impersonation of jungle overcast. Vietnam is a mostly cloudy place. The jagged mountains suck the clouds down, and most people remember the fogs and the mists, like the ground itself is always steaming. Jodie stared between the photo and the reality in front of her, dodging fractionally left and right to get a perfect fit.
    “But what about the wire? The bamboo poles? It looks so real.”
    “Stage props,” he said. “Three poles, ten yards of barbed wire. How difficult is that to get? They carried it in here, probably all rolled up.”
    “But when? How?”
    He shrugged. “Maybe early one morning? When the place was still closed? Maybe they know somebody who works here. Maybe they did it while the place was closed for the renovations.”
    She was staring at the picture, close up to her eyes. “Wait a damn minute. You can see that bench. You can see the corner of that bench over there.”
    She showed him what she meant, with her fingernail placed precisely on the glossy surface of the photograph. There was a tiny square blur, white. It was the comer of an iron bench, off to the right, behind the main scene. The telephoto lens had been framed tight, but not quite tight enough.
    “I didn’t spot that,” he said. “You’re getting good at this.”
    She turned around to face him. “No, I’m getting good and mad,